


Come back home

by SmellsLikeDeanSpirit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Bobby, Tragedy, mentions of Sam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmellsLikeDeanSpirit/pseuds/SmellsLikeDeanSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortality was an interesting thing, a thing Castiel had never had to ponder about before. He was an angel, a celestial being, he had never the time to think about such things as illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come back home

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance because this is horrible. I'm so so sorry. I write when I'm sad and this was what my brain came up with.   
> I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters.

Never had he felt so useless. His grace was drained, his life force slowly weakening, and all he could do was sit and watch. Watch as his charge, humanity’s faith, Dean Winchester, lay dying at his feet. 

Mortality was an interesting thing, a thing Castiel had never had to ponder about before. He was an angel, a celestial being, he had never the time to think about such things as illness. It occurred strange to him, Father had made them in his image, yet they were so weak as to die from sickness and ailment. A strange hindrance that he would never understand, but who was he to question the work of his Father. He would have put such things there for a reason and so he had no right to dispute it. 

Though it was times like these when, realizing he had fell and that he was no longer in his Father’s favour, that he wished he had enough strength to fight. He had fought his best, fought tooth and nail. Yet it was not enough. There was no way to free Dean of whatever had it’s cold clutches round his life, before it would of been a simple touch of two fingers to his forehead and he would be cleared. Placing those same fingers onto that same fevered forehead and all he felt was a tingle that reminded him of failure. 

He didn’t know what he felt, perhaps pity or some aching coil wrapping it’s talon across his heart with a beastly tug, a crush that almost felt like a shattering ribcage, or the taunt yank of a noose. How humans could stand emotions he would never understand. Did he feel sadness? He had felt grief, like death by a thousand papercuts, for every time he would remember it was another cut to his already damaged mind. The grief that he felt flowed through his veins and deadened his mind. It was like poison, dulling and killing anything he felt ‘till it was the only thing left. He felt sad, and he felt it all because of Dean Winchester.

Castiel had heard of love, heard of it’s destructive and manipulative nature. Love was like a demon at the crossroads, once you’re there, there is no going back. You brush the lips of love and you are caught in that deal ‘till you die. There are ways to break from the deal of course, such as death and other things more bitter on the tongue, but other than that, if it is true love, then it is unbreakable. Love was a strong word. Not a word to toss about like it was nothing, love would come back to bite you on the ass if you did that. Castiel wasn’t sure whether he would be able to commit to something as large as love. However he feared he could already feel her tempting tendrils caressing his slow-beating heart already. She already whispered in his ears with soft and deliberate provocation and he felt he didn’t have the strength to fight her off much longer. He feared that his bond with his charge was growing further than what was allowed. It was a sin for him to fall in love with a mortal, let alone the righteous man. 

However watching Dean’s shuttering breathes and the faulty rise and fall of his torn chest, he found himself caring less and less about the rules he was once bound to. He had fallen, and he had done it all for Dean. Except now Dean was dying. His anchor to the final sliver of sanity he had left trickling round in his brain was dying. Dean was his anchor. Other angels would have said that the Winchesters had ruined his life but he would disagree. They hadn’t felt, truly experienced, life as a human like he had. Emotions, as difficult and uncontrollable as they were, were also one of life’s greatest gifts. Those who said he was gone the moment he laid his hands on Dean had yet to feel true happiness. Happiness was what happens when you go to bed on the hottest night of the summer, a night so hot you can’t even wear a t-shirt and you sleep on top of the sheets instead of under them, although try to sleep would be more accurate. As an angel sleeping for the first time Castiel had never experienced a night like it. And then at some point, after falling asleep for what feels like the briefest moment, you wake up and notice you’re almost chilly, and in your groggy, half-consciousness, you reach over and pull the sheet over you and just that flimsy sheet makes you warm enough and you drift back off into deep sleep. And it’s that reaching, that gesture, that reflex you have to pull whats warm- whether something or someone- towards you, that feeling you get when you do that, that feeling of being safe in the world. That is happiness. Dean Winchester was that sheet in the night, the one he would reach out to and would bring that feeling of safety. Dean was his happiness.

Despite the warmth of the room, Dean whispered through chapped lips  
“I’m cold, Cas. I can feel it growing; when it reaches my heart I’ll die. I don’t want to die, Cas” He could say nothing, do nothing. Any thoughts of happiness he had had were ripped to shreds.

He lay in pieces on the floor and he no longer possessed the strength to gather them together. He would forever remain broken as a piece of himself had died. Dean Winchester. As the cold gripped Dean tight and held his heart in it’s grasp ‘till it stopped, Castiel died that night, he died when he felt the hand he had in his fall slack, he died when the last breath rolled out shakily from the righteous man’s lips. 

Sam, Bobby and everyone he called his friends patched him together but he was still broken, there was still a piece missing from his soul, the little finishing touch that lay over his heart, the one with Dean Winchester’s name over it. That fragment lay over an unmarked grave in a small town in the middle of no where. He could never lose where it was because his soul always drove him towards it, towards home. That little, unmarked grave was home. Dean Winchester was his home. 

But Dean Winchester was dead.


End file.
